


Vitae Potentia

by Deos



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, Erotic asphyxiation-ish, Frottage, Gore, Horror, Intercrural Sex, Just a hint of a plot, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Resident Evil 2, Resident Evil 2 Remake, Scent Kink, Thigh sex, Two Shot, Violence, Zombies, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 18:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18104351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deos/pseuds/Deos
Summary: Leon is hoisted high in the air and pushed back into the wall as those fingers squeeze inexorably, cutting off his air.Suddenly his body decides it is not so stunned after all. He wriggles in the Tyrant's grasp, trying to pry its fingers from his throat with both hands. He might as well be trying to bend iron bars; all he manages to do is scrape his own neck bloody.Green and black spots swim in his vision as the lack of air takes its toll, and his consciousness fades away.So this is how it ends…





	1. Leon

As he hustles through the halls of the police station, Leon S. Kennedy is frankly disturbed by the number of undead creatures he is encountering.

He has long since ceased to be horrified by the waking nightmare he’s been plunged into. It’s a little strange, but maybe his brain has reached its maximum capacity of ‘sheer fucking devastation’ and gone on autopilot.

Stranger still, it seems like the more time he spends here the more monsters emerge from the woodworks. From the eyeless, brain-faced horrors called 'Lickers’ that seem to cling to every wall and ceiling, to the shambling undead banging on the windows and lurching through the halls after him. It seems like for each one he puts down, another one replaces it. Even with double-tapping, they still _don't die!_

The worst part of all has to be the huge, trenchcoated figure that is now stalking the halls in search of him. It is fortunate that it is so loud--he can hear those heavy steps from a floor away--but it does nothing for his already-shot nerves.

Still, he has to focus. Solve the puzzles, leave this place, find Claire and alert the government so they can send someone better qualified to _do something_ about this outbreak.

Leon is hiding in the west office currently, plotting his next move. He's running dangerously low on ammo ( _isn't that always the case?_ ) but he thinks he might have stored some bullets in that little office attached to the dark room. He might have even put a can of first-aid spray with them, back when he was doing much better on health and stamina than he is now.

The problem is that between him and that room is a long hallway _full_ of windows. There are sure to be some undead lurking there, and he can't discount the possibility of a Licker or two. He would have preferred to use the upper floor to bypass that hall, but he can hear those heavy boots stomping about up there, searching and searching for him.

Right. Well, he better get a move on before those steps come down a floor.

He opens the door as narrowly as his body allows and slips out, shutting it softly behind him. He hurries away, tiptoeing around a corner and skirting bodies and pools of blood. Ahead of him he can see the turn towards the hall, and as he rounds that corner he has to bite his lip to stop from cursing.

A Licker. And if that wasn't bad enough, it's clinging to the wall opposite the windows, effectively blocking half the hall. _Fuck!_

Behind him, a shuffling sound and a low moan. Leon turns to see one of the zombies he thought he killed earlier pulling itself to its feet, lurching toward him with intent. Double fuck! His way back is cut off; the only option is forward.

Leon can't move quickly. Broken glass from the busted windows litters the floor, and he has to watch every step lest he alert the clinging monster. At the same time his panic is rising as the shuffling steps behind him grow closer. Why don't the bumbling sounds of the zombies attract the Licker, damnit?! The hands on his pistol and flashlight are sweaty, trembling slightly as he keeps his gun trained on the eyeless thing as he approaches. If he makes a sound, or the zombie gets too close he's going to try shooting the Licker in the brain, then making a run for it. If he's lucky he can get to the safety of the room before those wicked claws tear him apart…

He's so close now that he has to hug the windowed wall. Keeping his eyes on the floor and the Licker is tough, but he's aided by the zombie crunching through broken glass which disguises his own tinkling footsteps. The Licker cocks its head towards the zombie, sniffing as if to scent out the disturbance. He's halfway past it when his luck runs out.

_Clomp. Clomp. CLOMP!_

Those heavy footsteps are coming down the stairs! Leon squeezes past the Licker with one huge side-step, away from the zombie that's almost within arm's reach. The undead man stumbles into the Licker's bobbing head, causing it to shriek in warning and swipe at the zombie. The sound startles Leon, who takes a sudden, quick step forward, crunching more glass loudly.

The jig is up.

Leon bolts down the hall and can see a huge, black figure making its way down the stairs. Behind him the Licker lets out a louder, angrier screech and drops heavily from the wall. He can hear it's claws scraping across the floor as it comes for him.

He rounds the corner in front of the stairs, thinking that even if he gets into the room the Tyrant has seen him. There's a desk in there though, perhaps he can ring-a-round it and buy enough time to get up the stairs--

 _Scriiiitch_.

The Licker misses its leap, claws scrabbling on the floor to stop its momentum. Its tongue however doesn't miss. The long appendage lashes out, catching Leon's ankle mid-stride. He falls hard, foot tearing out of the slick grip as he does but it's too late. The Licker lunges again, landing halfway on top of him. He can feel sharp claws cutting through the back of his shirt into his skin, digging for his vital organs and oh _fuck_ , he is going to die--

There's a wet impact as the giant form of the Tyrant kicks the Licker away, sending it down the hall and into the zombie that has been steadily making its way towards them. Without hesitation Leon brings his gun around as he flips onto his back, firing once, twice, three times into the huge torso to absolutely no effect. A gloved hand reaches for him, grips his leg and then swings him around like a ragdoll into the wall.

Leon’s breath leaves him in a grunt as his back slams against the hard surface, his head bouncing off it and then the ground as he falls. His gun and flashlight slip from his stunned fingers, tumbling away. The huge hand reaches for him again, and he can do nothing to stop it as thick fingers close around his throat.

Leon is hoisted high in the air and pushed back into the wall as those fingers squeeze inexorably, cutting off his air.

Suddenly his body decides it is not so stunned after all. He wriggles in the Tyrant's grasp, trying to pry its fingers from his throat with both hands. He might as well be trying to bend iron bars; all he manages to do is scrape his own neck bloody.

He hooks one leg over the Tyrant's arm, using it for leverage so he can bring his other foot right into its nose. He stomps and kicks, but all that does is piss the monster off. Its other hand grabs his kicking foot, trapping it.

Green and black spots swim in his vision as the lack of air takes its toll, and his consciousness fades away.

_So this is how it ends…_

Suddenly, the Tyrant drops him.

Half-fainted, Leon hardly feels it. Coughing and choking, all his attention is focused on sucking sweet, sweet air back into his lungs--which is pretty fucking tough when all his lungs want to do is make him cough until he retches.

On all fours, drooling, he spits out nothing but bile and coughs some more. A huge booted foot nudges his shoulder roughly, tipping him onto his back. Leon flails like an overturned turtle, getting an arm beneath him to hold himself upright. He looks up, massaging his throat as his breathing begins to ease, staring at the Tyrant towering over him.

The Tyrant is staring back, milky eyes unreadable. The gray face, wrinkled like an elephant's hide is equally inexpressive, completely emotionless.

Perhaps that's why what it does next is so surprising.

It reaches for him again, and Leon tries to bat the approaching hand away fruitlessly. It doesn't go for his neck this time though, instead scruffing him by his kevlar vest. It hoists him high again, throws his legs over its shoulders and then proceeds to bury its face between his legs.

It is at this point Leon realizes that he is rock-hard.

 _What. The. FUCK_.

When did that happen? _Why_ did that happen? He has never been less aroused in his life, surrounded by the bloody bodies of his would-be colleagues, running on pure adrenaline from monsters that would like nothing better than to tear him apart!

That doesn't change the fact that his cock is straining against his zipper. It doesn't change the fact that the Tyrant is sniffing after it, nuzzling his crotch like it’s a fucking _dog_.

He realizes the Tyrant has let go of his vest in favor of holding onto his ass, the better to grind his pelvis against its face. It releases a guttural sound, like gravel tumbling through a sieve.

“Ruuurrgghh.”

 _That_ sound isn't the Tyrant. As Leon looks around he sees the zombie that had been doggedly pursuing him shuffling towards them again, broken arm dangling limply from its side. It comes closer and closer, and the Tyrant is seemingly unbothered. But Leon knows that from this position, he won't be able to do anything to stop the zombie from sinking its teeth into his calf.

He tries to wriggle free of the iron grip, which does nothing except mash his groin again and again into the Tyrant's face.

“Goddamit, let me go!” He rasps, voice raw from the strangling.

The Tyrant does not let him go.

Now the zombie is close enough to reach out with its working arm, grab onto Leon's pants and lean forward to--

_Wham!_

Faster than he thought possible, the Tyrant whips out an elbow and slams the undead man into the ground. One huge boot comes down on the zombie's head, popping its skull like an overripe watermelon.

This motion almost dislodges Leon, who tries to take advantage of the distraction by throwing himself off the Tyrant, but it maintains its grip with the other hand and he ends up dangling awkwardly from its shoulders by one leg.

He still can't read the Tyrant's expression, but if that granite-like face can show displeasure, he thinks that's what it is doing now. He readies himself for a fatal blow of his own, but all the monster does is sling him firmly over its shoulder like a sack of potatoes and head down the hall, around corners and through doors until they come to the reception area. There he is unceremoniously dumped on one of the leather sofas, and then the Tyrant is towering over him.

 _Oh shit._  Terror suffuses him. Is the Tyrant going to do what he thinks it's going to do? Can a monster even _have_ those urges?

The Tyrant sinks to its knees with a creak of leather on leather as its gloved fingers land on either side of Leon's legs. Its huge head dips down towards his crotch again, but mercifully Leon is no longer hard. Why he even was in the first place is a fucking mystery.

Evidently this displeases the monster. It growls in its throat, a sound more vicious than the gravelly hum of before. What does it _want?_

Leon finds out as one hand closes around his throat again.

“Ngh!” He can't even articulate 'no’ as his windpipe is sealed off. He squirms again in its grasp, but is perhaps even more powerless than before. The Tyrant's huge shoulders have pinned his legs to the sofa, preventing him from getting any leverage. The world spins as his brain is starved of oxygen, and distantly he is aware of that nose nuzzling the juncture of his thighs again, humming a distinctly _pleased_ sound.

The hand leaves his throat. Again he coughs so hard he is almost gagging, but now he is simultaneously aware that he is fully hard. _Again_.

This is _beyond_ fucked up.

It gets even more twisted. The Tyrant paws at his pants, fingers plucking at his belt buckle. Leon tries feebly to bat them away, but one look at the Tyrant's bared teeth stops him. It would be so easy for those to sink into his most sensitive bits.

His belt is ripped off, the material giving way as the Tyrant tears the metal tongue straight through the leather. The monster is apparently not intelligent enough to know how to work clothing, because it ruins Leon's zipper as it tries to peel his pants open like a bag of candy. The button flies free and the zipper rips off its teeth, and with one sharp tug his pants are now around his ankles.

_Shit._

His traitorous penis is still hard, springing free to tent his briefs once removed from the confines of his pants. The Tyrant leans in, nose pressing along his balls before drifting higher, sniffing along the shaft. He can feel the iciness of the monster's flesh on his thighs, raising goosebumps where it touches.

That unnatural cold is nothing compared to the chill in his gut as the Tyrant explores him.

What the fuck is it _doing?_ He simultaneously wants the answer to that question, and could live the rest of his life with never knowing. His eyes almost pop out of his head as thick fingers slip beneath his waistband and _pull_ , exposing him completely as his boxers tear painfully along the seams.

“What the fu-” he has to bite down on his tongue before he can complete the sentence. The Tyrant's gaze shifts sharply to his face and the hands alongside his thighs clench in warning. He shuts up, and the milky gaze returns to his penis, which is resolutely hard.

Leon has never been so betrayed by his own body.

A greyish-pink tongue slides out from the monster's mouth, swiping over the head of his cock. He almost jumps out of his skin at the cool, wet sensation and manages to keep a startled squawk from passing his lips. The tongue retreats behind stony lips, and there is an almost thoughtful expression on the Tyrant's face as it takes in his flavor. Then, it opens its mouth and clamps down on him.

This time he can't hold in the distinctly unmanly shriek. There is a _fucking monster_ with it's mouth _on his cock!_ Someone is going to find his dead, dickless body laying here after this is all over and wonder what the fuck happened to him! He's going to become a fucking joke among whichever police station finds them, everyone will be talking about the crazy zombie with the missing dick--

But the teeth never come. Instead, there is cool, steady pressure as the Tyrant envelops him, sucking at him like it's trying to draw his soul out of his body.

This isn't happening. This _isn't happening._ No fucking way. He is _not_ getting a blow job from a huge, terrifying _thing_ in the middle of a dilapidated police station. Logic dictates that this _isn't real_. He is probably having the craziest fever dream of his life, asleep in a hospital bed somewhere and soon he will wake up--

The Tyrant murmurs a pleased sound as a wave of pleasure courses through him, causing him to jerk his hips and groan.

Oh fuck, he has to escape.

There is no possible way to do that though. He is pinned down by the Tyrant, his gun and flashlight abandoned in the hall and just getting to them will be a nightmare. He has a knife still strapped to his back, but somehow he thinks that even if he _does_ manage to sink the blade into the Tyrant, all it will do is enrage the monster. Then he really _will_ get his dick chopped off by those huge, white teeth.

There’s really nothing to do but wait it out then.

Maybe if he closes his eyes, he can pretend he is being serviced by a beautiful, well-endowed woman, who has sucked him down to the root. Her hands press and knead, forcefully drawing him into her wanting mouth as she suckles his penis like it drips life-giving nectar. Oh yeah, she wants to swallow. Leon’s cock twitches at the thought, sparking another rasping, definitively masculine grunt from the Tyrant.

His fantasy collapses.

Well, if this is going to be his last bit of pleasure alive, he is going to enjoy it, Tyrant or no.

His eyes still shut tightly, he focuses only on the visceral sensations.  The intense pressure of the monster's mouth on him. The cool tongue, undulating against his sensitive flesh. The unrelenting suction, gripping him so tightly he thinks he could come from it alone.

Leon gives in, rocking his hips back and forth slowly at first, then faster as the monster permits it. He lets his mouth fall open as he pants, low sounds of pleasure escaping from him as his cock slides smoothly between those gray lips. The Tyrant doesn’t seem bothered by the sound, instead echoing it as each fresh wave of sensation causes Leon's cock to twitch and ooze.

He wants to grip the monster's head, to give himself the leverage to really thrust in earnest but he isn't sure the touch will be permitted.

He tests it by first placing a hand on the Tyrant's shoulder, smoothing his fingers over the leather. He has to open his eyes to see its reaction, and for the first time really takes in what is happening.

The monster is gazing up at him, eyes almost half-lidded as it sucks. He pulls his hips back, revealing all but the tip of his spit-slicked dick, then pushes forward to watch as his cock is slurped up eagerly. It could've have been hot, if it wasn't a _fucking TYRANT_.

Still, it doesn’t seem to mind his hand on its shoulder, so he does the same with his other hand. Gripping the fabric of its black trenchcoat, he used it as an anchor as he thrusts, snapping his hips with more force. The Tyrant goes with his motions, helping him along as its massive hands grip his hips and knead his ass, pulling his groin towards its mouth.

“Ohh fff-fffuck--” Leon pants, now positively face-fucking the monster.  He’s a little surprised at how well it is handling everything; if it were him on the receiving end of this treatment he would be choking. The Tyrant just swallows him endlessly, as though it can’t get enough of him.

Maybe it is because it doesn’t need to breathe.

The pleasure is building in his groin, a sweet ache that drives all higher thought from his brain. Leon has become an animal, mindlessly humping its way towards completion. He drowns in carnal delight, reveling in the wet slurp of the Tyrant's lips, the intense sucking pressure of that wickedly talented mouth. Who knew a monster was capable of this?

As he races towards the edge, a semblance of rational thought returns to him. Common courtesy dictates that he warn his partner (a _partner?_ He is going fucking insane) of his impending orgasm, to give them time to draw back. He doesn’t think the Tyrant would understand him, but it also is unlikely to appreciate a mouthful of some strange substance either. Pushed almost to his breaking point, he shoves his hips back as hard as he can, cock slipping free of the monster's mouth with a wet _pop_.

Leon goes to take himself in hand, but the Tyrant swats his arm away with a grating growl of anger, dragging his rump towards its face and forcibly sucking his straining flesh back into its eager mouth.

That is all it takes.

With a strangled cry, Leon grabs onto the Tyrant's neck and shoves his cock into that wet pressure as far in as it will go, shooting his release into the monsters waiting maw. And he'd be damned if the Tyrant isn't _swallowing it down_. For a few, blissful seconds Leon forgets everything; the horrors of this place, the urgency of his mission, and Claire; somewhere out there still waiting for him.

He groans and trembles as the cool tongue milks his pulsing flesh, continuing to suckle long after he had ceased orgasming. It is in fact becoming a little painful, and he protests and squirms until the Tyrant lets his limp penis slip from its mouth.

Leon relaxes against the leather sofa, regaining his breath. His sweaty skin is sticking uncomfortably to the material, and he wants desperately to put his pants back on. When he tries, the Tyrant bares its teeth at him, growling again. What does it _want?_ He waits then, fully expecting to be strangled to death again, but the Tyrant does…nothing. It stays there, staring at Leon as if waiting for something.

“What are you waiting for?” Leon asks it, feeling both exasperated and a little foolish. There isn't any room for terror in his frazzled brain any more. The Tyrant doesn’t respond. Instead it regains its feet, towering over the rookie cop once again.

It is then that Leon notices it.

The black trench coat, which before has fallen seamlessly to the Tyrant's shins like a black curtain is curiously distorted near the cinched waist.

Oh _fuck_ no.

If Leon had ever had a question in his mind about whether or not the Tyrant had once been human, this answers it. He had almost expected that with its inhuman appearance, the Tyrant would be nothing but wrinkled gray flesh all over, a distorted version of a Ken doll. Obviously it has derived some enjoyment from what it has done to him.

The only question now is, does it expect the same in return?

He looks up, searching those pale eyes. The Tyrant's face has slackened back to blankness. A far cry from the snarling creature that had been attempting to gobble his crotch less than 5 minutes ago. He notices that its lips gleam with residual spit, and shudders. Dare he attempt an escape? With the thing less than 3 feet from him, his odds of success might as well be zero.

Well. If a Tyrant can become aroused, perhaps it is also vulnerable to other, more human reactions. Would an orgasm make it tired, like Leon is now that he is spent?

Oh god, _why_ is he even entertaining this?!

The answer of course is that he wants to live.

Hesitantly Leon reaches out, brushing a hand over the swelling beneath the leather. The Tyrant makes no sound, no motion to stop him so he becomes bolder, pressing harder to feel the shape of the monster beneath the trenchcoat. It feels _enormous,_  which would make sense given the size of the rest of it. Is it his imagination, or does the Tyrant shift its thighs slightly to accommodate him?

He unbuttons the lower half of the coat, parting the flaps to reveal yet more leather. Its pants are skin-tight, showing every curve of the muscular figure beneath. What is with its obsession with leather?

The pants reveal more than just it's musculature though. Almost immediately Leon’s eyes are drawn to the gargantuan bulge that runs from its groin halfway down one thick thigh. The tight pants leave nothing to the imagination; he can see the curve of a fat mushroom head and the imprint of huge veins running along the monster's cock. Nervously his hand reaches for its waist, popping a straining button.

_Zzzzzip!_

He almost laughs at the absurdity as the Tyrant's pants zipper split itself open. The long appendage is still trapped along its leg though. He tugs the pants down (no underwear, really?) until at last the monster's penis springs free.

_Holy shit._

It has to be as long as his forearm, and just as thick. There is no way he is going to fit that in his mouth. Not that he _wanted_ to; who knew whether monster semen could transmit the virus right into him! Likewise he is not letting it anywhere near his ass. He'd die if that thing was buried inside him. He doesn’t even want to _touch_ it, but his only hope of escape banks on him doing just that.

He reaches out, smoothing one hand over the thick head and then down the shaft. The other hand comes forward to cup it from beneath, testing its weight. Jeez, it is _solid_. It feels strange too; smoother than his own skin, like melted wax.

The Tyrant evidently enjoys the touch, letting out a small sound. Compared to Leon’s own body the Tyrant had been cold, and its penis is lukewarm at best. Whatever blood or ichor fills its body, it is concentrated there just as it does in a human body. Leon wraps both hands around the base of the monster's organ, judging it's girth. They are able to fit completely around it, but with only about an inch of overlap. He gives another tentative stroke from the tip to the base, using more pressure this time.

The Tyrant makes another noise, louder now and shifts closer. Its cock is close enough to poke Leon in the nose, but he is _not_ putting that thing in his mouth!

Instead he gathers spit in his cheek, continuing to stroke until he has saved back a decent amount. Then he spits into his palms and wraps his hands around the thick length again. The spit combined with its smooth skin means that his strokes are now much more fluid, and he feels comfortable putting even more force behind them.

_Thunk!_

He looks up to see the Tyrant hunching over him, both hands pressed to the wall. For once he can see an expression on that face other than rage; its eyes are wide with what might be shock.

 _Hell yes!_ It’s working! And then: _Oh God, he’s delighted about giving a monster a handjob._

Leon continues to work, slicking his hands up with spit whenever they dry out. The Tyrant can take quite a bit of punishment, he will give it that. The force he is using would have stripped his skin raw, but it only makes the Tyrant groan louder. Its legs bump against the sofa, slamming it against the wall as it thrusts into his strokes.

The noise has attracted a zombie. Leon’s heart sinks as he hears the distinctive moan of the undead, and peeks around the Tyrant to see Lieutenant Branagh shambling towards them from the main hall.

_Marvin._

He had known the man was a goner, but he had half-hoped the man would have ended it before the virus took him. Marvin had given him his only weapon though, damn his selflessness. And now, he would pay the price.

The Tyrant looks around, disturbed by Leon’s slackening pace. It sees him eying the approaching undead, and slips out of the rookie cops grasp to deal with the new threat.

Leon has half a mind to yell _‘Stop!’,_  but he knows that the Tyrant will not listen. Perhaps it is better this way; Leon knows Marvin would not have wanted to exist like this. Still, he is a little saddened as the Tyrant winds up one huge fist and punches Marvin’s head clean off his body.

Threat dealt with, the Tyrant waddles back towards him, looking a little silly with its pants around its ankles. The huge appendage swinging between its legs is anything but funny though, and Leon catches it before it can poleaxe him. The Tyrant resumes letting him stroke and squeeze its dick, the sofa beginning its rhythmic banging again.

Leon has a new problem now. He’s getting _tired._

It’s no wonder why; he had arrived at the gas station at night after a full day of driving, only to be thrown into this chaos. He's had no sleep for almost twenty-four hours now, operating on only herb cocktails and adrenaline to get him through this nightmare. What’s more, his arms hurt from repeated wrestling with zombies, firing his gun and fruitless attempts at wrenching open locked doors.

What he needs is a way to do this more easily, and the only things that could make this process easier are having better lube, letting the Tyrant fuck him or giving up and letting it kill him out of frustration.

None of those options sound good.

He wracks his tired brain, trying to think. Lube is the best option. What could he use for lube besides saliva? There’s no cafeteria here, or else he would try to look for some kind of cooking oil. Maybe gun oil? He didn’t look for it when he was in the safety deposit room before, but there is his best bet of finding some. He doesn’t know if the Tyrant will let him get that far though.

Still, he has to try.

He stops stroking to gain its attention. After a few seconds it looks down at him, mouth ajar and eyes unfocused. Leon points to the door leading away from the main hall.

“Um, I need to go find some lube.”

This sentence, under normal conditions would be strange given his location. Under these conditions, with this partner, in this location it is almost comically inconceivable. The Tyrant sure can’t seem to conceive what he’s saying, anyway. It stares down at him again, unmoving.

“Uh…” He can’t think of anything to say. He will have to simply _do_ and hope it understands.

He tries to get up from the sofa, but the Tyrant pushes him back down. He tries again, more slowly but is shoved back again, this time with a warning growl. He pacifies it with a few heavy strokes until the growl turns to pleased groaning. Then, he tries again, this time continuing to stroke as he does, so the Tyrant turns its body and allows him to slip off the sofa. He takes a few steps towards the door, letting his hands slip free from the Tyrant’s body and a heavy hand reaches out to grip warningly at his neck. He resumes stroking, this time backing away slowly so that it is forced to follow him.

This turns into the weirdest trip through the RPD that Leon has ever taken. Hell, probably will _ever_ take.

He can’t move quickly, due to the active stroking he has to keep up and the fact that his pants are still around his ankles. He dares not try to free his feet though, for fear that the Tyrant will begin strangling him again if he pauses too long. It still has one hand perilously close to his neck, though this seems to be more so it can use him as a leaning post.

Out of the reception area, down the hall, through the records room and then another door to the safety deposit room they walk, mercifully undisturbed by zombies or Lickers. Perhaps the Tyrant has frightened them all away.

As the door closes behind them Leon relaxes slightly. All he has to do is find a gun cleaning kit.

That turns out to be the easiest part of it all. In the bottom of the first open locker he finds one, and he abandons his stroking to fumble with the latches on the box, ignoring the Tyrant’s warning growl.

Success! The box pops open and he grabs the little bottle. He pops the cap and drizzles some oil on his open palms before tucking the bottle in his vest. Things are about to get so much easier.

Leon’s hands, now slick with oil fairly glide across the smooth flesh. It takes less effort for him to put the force behind his strokes that cause the Tyrant to slump, clutching the top of the lockers as it grunts. Perhaps it’s just the smallness of the room, but it sounds like it is groaning even louder than before, hips jerking towards him so forcefully that he is rocked by it.

After a few minutes though, even with the oil his arms begin to burn with exhaustion. He needs another option.

His ass is right out. There are other ways to achieve such pleasure though, right?

His mind goes back to his teenage days, with his first girlfriend. She had been afraid of getting pregnant, wouldn’t let him inside her. In order to please him she had clamped her thighs around him, and Leon had frotted himself between them until he came. Messy, juvenile, yes...it is possible. Disgusting, but possible.

Having that monstrous cock between his thighs is about as disturbing as it can get without it actually being inside him, but he _has_ to try!

Leon squirts more oil on his palms and rubs them against the inside of his thighs until the skin is good and slippery. He kicks one of his shoes off, then shucks a foot free of his pants leg so he can move unhindered.

Where can he do this? He doesn’t want to lead the Tyrant through the halls again, so that means they have to do it here, right on the locker room floor.

Ugh.

Now how to do it? On his back? On his knees? He tries to imagine being face-to-face with the Tyrant while it rams him, and is disturbed.

Knees it is then.

He oils up his hands once more and spreads the liquid over the Tyrant’s cock. Then he kneels on all fours on the ground, presenting his ass toward the monster. His face reddens as he thinks of how he must look.

The Tyrant, again doesn’t move.

Any new situation seems to confuse it. Leon looks back at it over his shoulder; the Tyrant is still clutching the tops of the lockers, cock jutting proudly out at him.

“Well, come on!” He gestures for it to kneel down, come closer.

It seems to understand the motion, dropping slowly down, but no more. Leon backs towards it and takes a deep breath before sliding his oiled thighs over the Tyrant’s hard flesh. When at last he has backed up until his ass meets its groin, the Tyrant’s cock comes almost to the bottom of his sternum. Yeah, no way that thing is going in him.

The Tyrant seems to finally understand what is happening. It draws its hips back, then pushes them forward again, sliding easily between his legs. The gravelly groans start anew as it begins thrusting, cool flesh heating as it rubs against him. The monster comes down heavily over him, one massive arm supporting itself while the other wraps around his waist, holding him firmly in place as it fucks his thighs.

Well, this was certainly easier than before. Warmer too, because the monster’s trench coat fans out, cocooning them both. Soon Leon is sweating, both from generated heat and the force he is exerting to keep himself still.

“HHnnrrggggGGH!” The Tyrant is groaning loudly in his ear, creating an annoying counterpoint to the wet slap of its balls against his thighs.

His knees are getting bruised; he hadn’t anticipated doing this on the stone floor. Damn, this thing is taking _forever_ to cum! Eventually his arms give way, sending him ass-up into the ground.

Right, he is going to have to do this face-up.

Leon flips over onto his back, pushing the Tyrant’s chest with his feet until it sits back upright. He fishes the oil out of his vest again, re-slicking both his thighs and it’s cock for ease of motion. As an afterthought, he slips his kevlar and undershirt off, not wanting oil to be smeared on his clothes. Then, he raises his legs up and links his ankles, squeezing his thighs tightly around that gray flesh.

The Tyrant begins its earnest thrusting again, bracing one hand on Leon’s knees to stop him from shifting across the floor with each movement. Facing the monster, he can use his hands to clutch the fat cock to him as it pistons forward back. The warming flesh rubs against his sweat-slicked stomach and chest, sliding smoothly against his own penis as it does. The sensation is...interesting.

_Don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it--_

Too late. His cock is swelling, pressing urgently against the Tyrant's own hardness. Pleasure sparks in Leon’s belly, building as the friction between them continues.

“ _Fuck."_ Leon whispers, annoyed with himself. The Tyrant pays him no mind, just pounds into him over and over, grinding their flesh together.

The monster’s moans are getting louder. The thrusting picks up speed, shaking him with the force of a jackhammer. He squeezes and strokes eagerly, trying to hurry the Tyrant’s orgasm along, wondering how he will know when it’s about to--

With a roar that reverberates around the locker room, the Tyrant pushes once more through Leon’s thighs and _comes_. A torrent of lukewarm fluid spurts at him, splashing his face, his hair, his chest, and even the floor behind his head.

“Oh, sick--” Leon sputters, spitting and trying to make sure none of its semen gets in his mouth. Wave after wave shoots at him as the Tyrant quivers, hips thrusting minutely until at last, with one more rasping groan, it releases him.

Leon backs away, sitting up and grimacing at the liquid that drips onto his waist and thighs.

Shit, that is _nasty_.

The Tyrant is still on its knees, pale eyes wide and mouth agape. Leon thinks perhaps he has broken it, which means this is the perfect time to slip away. He gets to his feet, feeling his own cock bounce as he does and resolutely ignoring it.

He needs to get his clothes on because he'll be damned if he's running through the RPD naked, but he's positively soaked in Tyrant cum. And there's not so much as a spare shirt or towel around to clean himself up!

God he'd kill for a shower now.

Leon pulls his clothes on, wincing where the fabric sticks to the ooze that is rapidly chilling on his skin. He fastens his pants as best as he can with the busted zipper and belt, and shoves his shoes on. One of them is stuck halfway on his foot but already he is moving. He goes the long way around the lockers, edging towards the door that is behind the monstrous form of the Tyrant. He is just cracking the door open when it _moves._

“Oh, _come on_ \--” Leon hisses and throws the door open as he sees the huge form lurch to its feet.

He darts out and rushes for the hallway where he has dropped his equipment. He close enough to see the glow of the flashlight when those stomping footsteps finally catch up to him. Inhumanly strong arms drag him back, hoisting him off the ground in a reverse fireman’s carry.The Tyrant is holding him like a bouquet of roses to its face, nose once again buried in his crotch.

_Not this shit again!_

Leon struggles in his grasp but it is fruitless. The Tyrant does not molest him as it did before though. Instead it stands motionless for a long moment, still huffing him like he's human incense. Then it slings him back over its shoulder, stomping towards the lower levels of the RPD.

Where it is taking him, he doesn’t know. What he does know is that it looks like _something_ is stirring behind those dead eyes, and it is running its grayish tongue over its lips in anticipation.

“Where the fuck are you taking me?!”

Leon’s nightmare is just beginning.


	2. T-00

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Can't Take the Sky by Cluegirl

_"Sweet?"_

_"Life usually is, to the dying."_

_~ Cluegirl_

 ---

The Tyrant stands motionless, listening in on the hive mind. Its own objective has been completed; there are no more surviving officers in the RPD. It must decide whether or not to join the others or remain. There has been no success in the search for the G-Virus; the child bearing the sample is in hiding, and protected by an opponent that could rival the T-103 in strength. The protector has been seen once from afar, unaccompanied by the sample. The Tyrant therefore does not approach it.

T-00 could join the rest in the search for the Delta Force intruders but there is still the possibility of survivors returning to the police department. The completion of its own objective, while currently satisfied still has room for error. It has counted the bodies of the officers and compared them to the provided list. Three remain unaccounted for.

Stay or go?

_Boom!_

In the distance, a sound. The building trembles; something has impacted it forcefully. T-00 disengages from the hive-mind to investigate.

Each floor is scoured carefully. Its eidetic memory serves it well; there have been several changes since it was last here. There are still survivors. T-00 searches half the building, then crosses to the main hall. There, a surprise: another survivor. The human lies half-slumped on a bench. By its look and scent the Tyrant can tell it has been contaminated by the T-Virus. Its fate is already sealed. It leaves the half-human in favor of investigating the other section of the building.

There on the second floor it finds the source of the sound. A helicopter has impacted the side of the building, spewing fire into the corridor. The flames do not bother it. It leans close, examining the bodies in the wreckage. They are burned, unmoving, clearly dead. A disappointment.

Beyond the twisted metal wreckage, a movement. It is raining, but that does not explain the motion.

From above, there is a sudden torrent of water. It cascades onto the helicopter, extinguishing the flames that have been burning merrily with a hiss. A door creaks open, then closed. Around the corner comes a human, moving with purpose. _A survivor._

Eagerly T-00 shifts the wreckage, sending it tumbling into the night. The human catches sight of the Tyrant and retreats in the opposite direction with T-00 in hot pursuit. Outside in the rain it runs around the rooftop, scurrying like a mouse searching for a hole. The Tyrant reaches for it, but the survivor ducks the grasp and slips around, back to the door.

T-00 pursues. It much prefers the chase.

This human is more clever than the last. It disappears into the RPD with alacrity, avoiding the undead and the clinging ones that have been attracted by the loud explosion. The Tyrant does not hurry; the human will eventually make a mistake.

It searches the top floors, then the second floors. More doorknobs now give way when it tests them, proof that the human has been busy. It doesn't find the survivor in any of the rooms though. The Tyrant works its way through the showers, down the hall towards the stairs. It will search the first floor next.

From below, the sound of crunching glass. One of the clinging one releases an alarmed screech. It must be the survivor!

Down the stairs the Tyrant goes, just in time to see the human lunging away from an undead man and the leaping eyeless one. The officer manages to dodge the clinging one's grasping claws, only to be tripped by its lashing tongue. The human falls, and the wall-clinger sets upon it.

T-00 feels irritation. It will not be denied its kill! It kicks the wall-clinger forcefully away, sending it into a t-virused pursuer. Then it grabs the survivor, hoisting it into the air by the neck. The Tyrant has ahold of one of the humans weakest points. It feels dull satisfaction as it begins to squeeze. It can feel the racing beat of the human’s heart, the frantic tugging as the survivor tries to free itself. It kicks a foot into the Tyrant's nose; an irritating sensation. T-00 traps the flailing appendage and squeezes tighter, feeling the human's struggles weaken.

Suddenly, a whiff of sweet scent. The tantalizing smell cuts through the Tyrant's brain, completely disrupting its commands. It drops the survivor, trying to regain control.

The human is producing this scent. What does it mean?

The desire to take in that smell overrides everything. Below the Tyrant, the human coughs and moves feebly. It is only too easy to pick it up again. T-00 sniffs, nose wandering down the human until it picks up the sweet aroma. It is coming from the junction of the human’s legs. The Tyrant presses its nose firmly there, breathing deeply and ignoring the little creature's renewed struggles. It could squeeze it until it stops moving, but it is afraid that doing so will terminate the scent.

A warm sensation gathers inside the Tyrant as it breathes, huffing that saccharine aroma deep into its lungs. The scent seems to be at once sharpening all sensation and dulling it's mind, a feeling that is disturbingly pleasant. It nuzzles as close as it can, pulling the human tightly to it and basking in the strange, cascading warmth.

The survivor, who up until this point has ceased struggling, resumes its movement. The Tyrant becomes aware of why when it hears the tortured moan of the t-virused undead it had thrown the wall-clinger into. It has advanced upon them, reaching for the human.

A flash of annoyance cuts through the pleasurable haze. Does the shambler desire the sweet smell as well?

T-00 will not share it.

The Tyrant elbows the undead man to the ground and then crushes its head, still keeping the human clutched close. The human however seems to think it can escape. It tries to throw itself free of the Tyrant's shoulders. T-00’s hat is knocked off in the attempt.

It shoulders the human easily, carrying it away. The Tyrant desires a location where it will be undisturbed by the eyeless ones or t-virus harborers. The nearest room free of these things and with enough space for T-00 is just outside the main hall. When they arrive, it places the human down and resumes it's sniffing.

Disappointingly, the scent is disappearing. Why has the human stopped producing it?

Growling in displeasure, the Tyrant decides to try re-enacting the circumstances that produced it the first time. It closes a hand around the human’s thin neck, squeezing down. Again the little creature struggles, heart thumping against T-00s fingers urgently. As its movements weaken the sweetness surges again, and the Tyrant releases its grip to grasp the human and bury its face into the smell. It hums in pleasure as that spiraling warmth returns, but it wants _more_. Removing the little creature's clothing will allow the smell to be experienced uninhibited.

It removes the flimsy obstacles as the human protests, releasing a stronger cloud of that sweet scent. When it pulls the last layer of fabric off, the human vocalizes.

“What the fu-”

T-00 looks at the survivor but doesn't respond. The human ceases speaking, and the Tyrant returns its attention downward.

The smell emanating now is even more potent; a siren song that draws it closer. The humans reproductive organ is before it, engorged and red. This is where the scent is coming from. Having been human once, the sight stirs something ancient in the Tyrant. A memory thought long forgotten.

There is a clear bead of fluid welling from the tip of the organ, where the smell is strongest. T-00 swipes an inquisitive tongue over it, and its mind shatters.

The sweet taste is even more potent than the smell. It sinks into the Tyrant's taste buds, stirring more deep pleasure within. All commands are forgotten in the face of that intoxicating flavor, a taste that at once fills the Tyrant with buzzing energy and turns it's mind to useless slurry. It must have _more_.

It opens its mouth, drawing the hot organ in and sucking the sweet fluid into its mouth. The human lets out an alarmed sound, which goes right through the Tyrant. All it cares about is the pleasure rolling through it, spurred by that honeyed flavor. It hums in enjoyment, spurring another sound from the human.

Above him the Tyrant can hear the human breathing raggedly. The organ situated within T-00s mouth twitches, spilling fresh sweetness onto it's tongue. The Tyrant releases another pleased sound, hoping to spur more flavor. The human begins to move in its grasp, drawing the hot flesh back and forth within the Tyrant's mouth. T-00 would protest at the interruption, but each thrust releases another trickle of saccharine liquid so instead it helps the human along.

The human is making more sounds, groans similar to the t-infected. The Tyrant notices that as the pitch of the sounds changes, so does the amount of fluid. It experiments with sucking motions, trying to elicit the sounds that produce the most sweet flavor.

“Ohh fff-fffuck--”

Another vocalization from the human, but it doesn't coincide with any action but more frenzied motion of its hips, so the Tyrant dismisses it. It can feel the human grasp its shoulders, pulling itself closer to T-00.

Then, in a sudden and surprising show of force, the human pushes away. The warm flesh slips from the Tyrant's mouth, removing the source of delicious flavor. It growls in anger at the interruption and forces the human back towards it, sucking even harder for the syrupy nectar and then the survivor makes the loudest sound of all.

A keening wail fills the air as the human forces its hips towards T-00, burying its reproductive organ as far into the Tyrant's mouth as it will go. A gush of sweetness floods over the Tyrant's tongue and it swallows it down eagerly, feeling energy flood into every cell of its body even as the building pleasure eclipses everything. The warm appendage pulses, releasing spurt after spurt of saccharine liquid until at last it stills, going limp in the Tyrant's mouth. T-00 continues to suck until no more of the sweet flavor remains and the human is squirming to get away, finally releasing the flesh from its mouth.

T-00 regains its feet, realizing as the fuzziness clears from its mind that the mind-link is alive with confusion. Has it been broadcasting sensation to the other Tyrants?

It towers over the human as the commands once again assert themselves in its mind. Destroy surviving officers at the RPD, find the G-Virus. It watches the human, who is fidgeting on the furniture below. Its first instinct is not to eliminate the human. Rather it wishes to wait and see if it will produce more of the intoxicating flavor.

The desire to taste, to feel the energy filling its body outweighs even the urgency of the commands.

“What are you waiting for?!” The human is vocalizing again. T-00 does not answer. Though it understands human speech, one of its core commands is to never respond to anyone but the master.

Curiously, T-00 notices that some of the energy that had filled it earlier still remains. It is centered in the lower abdomen, producing an uncomfortable tightness. Even as it has this realization, the survivor reaches for the Tyrant, rubbing a hand lightly over that ball of energy.

A spark of sensation; alien, alluring. The human caresses more firmly, increasing the sparks. Instinctively the Tyrant shifts, parting its legs slightly to allow access.

Wandering fingers pluck at the Tyrant’s clothes, releasing the top button of its pants and at once the worst of the pressure is relieved. The human is doing to T-00 as the Tyrant had done to it; removing the barriers between it and the Tyrant's naked flesh. It thinks to stop the human, but as its leather pants pool around its ankles those warm hands return, creating even greater sensations.

T-00 is used to tactile stimulus. Heat, cold, and pressure are things it experiences, and dismisses from its mind in favor of other data. Pain it is used to; is in fact an integral part of it's being. Pain is the meaning of its existence.

Pleasure is much rarer.

It experiences pleasure when it hunts. When it completes objectives, there is satisfaction that can be shared with the hive mind. This level of visceral, pleasurable sensation is unheard of; so infrequent that it must be pursued.

Instincts compel the Tyrant to press its hips towards the sensation, moving back and forth as the human had done to milk pleasure from the friction.

The human pauses to spit liquid onto its hands, then returns to touching, increasing its force and speed. The wetness facilitates those touches, bringing about such pleasure that T-00 loses minor motor control of its legs. It must brace itself on the wall to avoid sinking to the ground.

A strange sound fills the room; unaccustomed to vocalizing, it takes a moment for the Tyrant to realize that it is the one producing it.

Distantly through the hive-mind T-00 is aware of the other Tyrants, arrested in their motions as they quiver under the sensations being fed to them through the mind-link.

The Tyrant pursues that pleasure, moving more forcefully now. It's legs cause the furniture to impact the wall. Molten delight has sunk its roots into the Tyrant's abdomen, growing deeper as time passes.

The humans hands begin to falter, slowing their motions. Something has distracted it.

T-00 looks around. There, stumbling towards them is the t-infected officer, now completely inhuman. It moves towards them, mouth gaping in hunger at the sight of the survivor’s living flesh.

Once again, anger flares in the Tyrant. Disturbing the flow of pleasure is highly undesirable, and it will not be interrupted by lesser beings. It turns away from the survivor to decapitate the infected with one swift strike, removing the distraction. The Tyrant moves back towards the survivor, who resumes the gratifying stroking of T-00’s flesh.

All too soon the creature stops. T-00 looks down to see what has caused this interruption, only to see the human looking back up at it.

“Um, I need to go find some lube.”

It understands the vocalizations, but does not fully comprehend them. Go where? Find what? Unimportant. Most important is the achievement of pleasure.

“Uh…”

The little creature makes an indistinct sound, and tries to remove itself from where the Tyrant has placed it.

T-00 pushes it back down.

It attempts again, and the Tyrant pushes it down more firmly, growling in warning. It will _not_ tolerate the human escaping!

Hot hands return to T-00’s flesh, massaging and drawing ripples of sensual delight through the Tyrant once again. Higher functions cease. It can only watch for a moment as the human moves again, slipping past T-00 to stand. The Tyrant reaches out to grab human’s neck, grating out a warning before the survivor can attempt to flee. Touching resumes, and with it that spiraling delight.

The human moves away from T-00 slowly, but the stroking does not cease. The Tyrant moves along with the survivor, pursuing the sensation.

Through the building they go. The Tyrant can catalog each room, knows exactly where they are at each moment. It does not care. The human backs into the room filled with lockers and the scent of gunpowder and the Tyrant follows.

The touches cease. The human is fiddling with a box instead. Does it seek a weapon? The Tyrant growls again, fingers clenching around the survivor’s neck threateningly. The box pops open and the human retrieves a bottle, applies some liquid to its hands. Then, the stroking resumes.

The sensation is even more intense this time. Sudden weakness in T-00’s legs force it to grab the lockers in support, and it uses this leverage to thrust powerfully into that squeezing, thrilling grip. Pleasure builds and builds, spreading from the blazing nexus at the Tyrant's core.

Through the mind-link, the Tyrant can sense T-04 lose all function and drop to its knees, helpless in the swelling sensations. T-00 attempts to shut down its end of the hive-mind, but is unable.

Again, the human stops, just as the pleasure reaches new heights.

A low grumble rattles in T-00's throat. The human is moving again, rubbing more liquid on its body and removing an article of clothing. Why?

The survivor sinks the the ground on all fours, looking back at T-00.

“Well, come on!” It makes a motion, as though bidding the Tyrant to come closer. The Tyrant sinks to its knees, impatient.

The human inches back toward T-00, lifting one leg over its stiff flesh and then clamping down tightly. It wiggles its body, mimicking the thrusting motion of before and the Tyrant _understands_.

 _Bliss._ The sparks have transformed into a roaring fire, surging inside T-00. It bucks its hips back and forth, shifting the human away from it. It grabs ahold of the survivor and braces itself on one arm, holding tightly to keep the human close.

Back and forth, in and out. There is a slick slapping sound as it pounds against the human, and the survivor becomes wet as the heat on its skin builds. Even with the Tyrant's support, after a few minutes the creature slips, disrupting the pleasure again.

 _Frustration_.

The human flips so that it is facing the Tyrant. It smears more gleaming fluid on itself and T-00, stripping its remaining garments off. Its legs come around again, squeezing. As T-00 resumes its motions, it notices that the sensation builds much more quickly this time, becoming a growing knot of pleasurable pain in its belly.

The human clutches itself tightly to T-00, so that more of the Tyrant's flesh is stroked with each thrust.

The smell of sweetness is returning.

T-00’s desire to smell, to taste that saccharine fluid is strong, but the knot of tension is even more urgent. The Tyrant feels as though it may burst with the sensation. In its head the hive-mind thrums, alive with tension. The other Tyrants are struggling to regain control over their bodies, to disrupt the flow of raw _feeling_.

It is too much. At once they all lose control of the mind-link and the pleasure doubles, triples, rebounding on itself and multiplying through them as they experience feedback from the others.

The knot of tension explodes, and the Tyrant roars as the strongest wave of pleasure yet surges through it, flooding in waves that coincide with an outpouring of fluid from its body. Over and over the wave surges, until at last it recedes, leaving behind nothing but tingling warmth. The mind link is silent, completely shattered in the wake of such pleasure.

As the sensation bleeds from T-00, it takes with it that restless energy the human's sweet flavor had induced. The Tyrant is left unnaturally relaxed, each limb languid and limp. It can only watch as the human gets up, dripping white fluid and making strange sounds. The human is pulling the garments that T-00 had removed back over its body, masking the scent that it had so recently begun to emit. Then, it moves around the lockers, behind the Tyrant. T-00 hears the door creak open.

_The human is trying to escape!_

T-00 whirls and lunges after it, following the fleeing form as it skitters down the hallway. The Tyrant chases, scooping up the human up before it can get away. The creature squirms and struggles, but T-00 only presses its nose to the human's pelvis and breathes deeply.

The commands are trying to reassert themselves in the Tyrant's mind. Destroy all remaining RPD officers. Find the G-Virus.

Another deep breath of intoxicating scent.

The hive mind is coming back online, but the other Tyrants are confused, muddled, trying to reassert their own commands. T-00 shuts itself out of the mind-link, going dark in the communication.

Destroy all remaining RPD officers.

A breath.

The alluring smell drowns out everything, once again allowing the Tyrant to assert its own will over its commands. 

Without the uniform, this is not an officer. It is merely a survivor, and T-00 has not been commanded to eliminate all _survivors._

It will take the human somewhere safe and leave it there for the moment. It must assure the others that the G-Virus is not retrievable, then it will return.

It would taste that sweetness again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Cluegirl, whose concept gives this situation plausibility.
> 
> For the curious: Vitae potentia is the vital life essence (potential) within humans, contained in blood and gametes (sperm, unfertilized eggs). It can be used to prolong the life of the dying, or perhaps inspire the undead. The vitae from gametes is purer than the vitae from blood. It tastes sweet, as life usually is to the dying.


End file.
